


My Favorite Thing

by bodyelectric (grantairas)



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, not very graphic but maybe a tiny bit of gore?, there's just no way for me to summarize this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grantairas/pseuds/bodyelectric
Summary: "Patroclus," he said.





	

It was one of their afternoons on the beach. Content with the sun and with each other, Achilles sat facing Patroclus, and Patroclus facing the sea.

They had been sitting in silence for some time. Silence suited them. Achilles loved the way Patroclus fit into the quiet. The way he sat, the curve of his lashes against his cheek as he watched the waves slip over and away from his crossed legs, darkened bronze against the sand.

But now, Achilles wanted to speak.

“Patroclus,” he said.

“Yes?”

“What is your favorite thing about yourself?”

Patroclus, pulled away from his thoughts, looked towards Achilles in surprise. Achilles had a plan for this question, knowing it would not be so easily answered.

“I suppose…” Patroclus faltered, eyes falling away from Achilles’ expectant gaze. For a moment his fingers tripped over each other in his lap. He tilted his head, smiled a little, bit down on his lip. Achilles, having studied each passing emotion and thought across Patroclus’ face for months now, anticipated each movement and smiled to see himself correct.

“I’m not good at much,” Patroclus finally said, a little too quickly, as if in a hurry to empty his mouth of the words. “But I suppose I like that I am good at listening and learning.”

“You are,” Achilles agreed swiftly. _And so much more._

He let the silence settle before speaking again. “Shall I tell you my favorite thing?”

Patroclus smiled. “About yourself? Surely there are too many to count.”

Achilles splashed at Patroclus, and the drops of seawater glistened under the sun’s kiss before spreading across the front of Patroclus’ tunic. His target fell backwards laughing and righted himself again.

“My favorite thing about you,” Achilles said when Patroclus had quieted.

 There was another pause. “Oh,” Patroclus said.

“I like how you are always thinking. You are not like the others in the palace who are always talking about things of no importance. And I like to be with you, away from the others. You are special. But there is one thing that I like above the rest.”

He had Patroclus’ attention now. He knew Patroclus would not prompt him, would sit watching Achilles until the moment he decided to continue. He savored Patroclus’ warm eyes on his own.

“It’s this.” Playing at shyness, Achilles lowered his eyes and placed his hand flat against the plane of Patroclus’ stomach, where the wet tunic clung to his skin.

“Why is that?” Patroclus asked. Achilles could feel Patroclus’ pulse quickening. Amused, he leaned closer and said, “Because of _this_.” He brought both hands to Patroclus’ middle and poked and prodded and tickled until Patroclus was breathless with laughter and half-hearted pleas for Achilles to stop. But Achilles did not stop. Laughing with Patroclus, the two of them wrestled there in the receding tide. When they rose to return to the palace for the evening, their backs were covered with patterns of wet sand. Achilles did not mind.

 

In the safety of their cave, Patroclus and Achilles laid together under painted constellations and glistening quartz. Achilles’ eyes were closed and he hummed softly as Patroclus traced patterns across his chest with the tips of his fingers.

“A new composition?” Patroclus asked jokingly.

“Mmm. Perhaps.”

 “And what will this one be about?”

In answer, Achilles opened his eyes to look fully at Patroclus. _The same thing my songs will always be about._ But he did not say anything. That was the way it was between them. A single look. Accordance.

Patroclus smiled his sweet smile and laughed when Achilles pushed him onto his back.

“Patroclus,” he said, and every syllable carried the meaning of the thousand promises and declarations of love that they didn’t have time for. Now was the time for other things. Achilles gazed at his lover’s body, every contour and curve of it, imagining a different way to explore it every night for the rest of their lives. He shivered to think of it.

As always, his eyes lingered on the stretch of skin between Patroclus’ hipbones, the taut muscle that he felt with the palm of his hand before bending to kiss it, listening to Patroclus’ intake of breath as he lowered himself. He kept his hand resting there as he took Patroclus in, and later when they slept, Patroclus' back pressed to his chest. 

 

When they bring him the body – Patroclus’ body, the golden, beautiful, lifeless mass of it – he is lost to his grief. The conflict between denial of what is in front of him and the realization of its permanence surge into a battle like Greek and Trojans tearing apart his chest. The panic makes him weak.

“Patroclus,” he says, and then again, and then he screams it when he sees for the first time the ugly gash in Patroclus’ stomach where Hector’s spear passed through and marred him, before it took him away, leaving Achilles nothing but Troy's dust and his pain.


End file.
